Category Archives: General Observations

Public, Political, and Possible

Adventure in Avignon

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In 1999 my daughter, Shari, and I went on a European excursion. We visited England and Scotland, then took the EuroStar (a train that dives under the English Channel) to France. We are both Francophiles so the very air of France and especially Paris made us giddy. I had been to France previously, and it was exciting to share it with my daughter on her first trip. Our final destination was Barcelona to visit our niece and her husband, Disa and Pedro. After a few days in Paris, we took the Eurail to Avignon intending to drive the rest of the way exploring Provence.

Avignon is an ancient city in southcentral France, walled in by the Romans in the first century and used as a fortress over centuries. It served as the Vatican City for the Popes in the 14th century. The impressive gothic Palais des Papes was the residence of seven successive popes. Avignon is on the banks of the Rhône River with a bridge across the river that became popular in a folk song describing people dancing across the bridge, “Sur La Pont D’Avignon”, a song every French child knows and anyone who studies the language is taught.

Our adventure in Avignon is the set piece of this story. The third day after looking around the city we decided to take in a movie. It was called Drôle de Père in French or Big Daddy in English. We went to the theater, bought our soft drinks and our choice of sugar popcorn, caramel popcorn, salted popcorn, or cheese popcorn. I got salted, Shari chose caramel. We watched the hilarious antics of Adam Sandler trying to impress his girlfriend with “his son”, who was actually the five-year-old son of his friend. It was dubbed in French and watching it made every line even funnier.

After the movie, we returned to our hotel before we went out to see more of Avignon. I checked for my purse. I had put it in the back of the closet. It was gone, stolen from our room. Shari had her purse with her. I didn’t want the whole bulky purse so only took my waist pack with my wallet and passport. Our airline vouchers for the prepaid return tickets home and our prepaid vouchers for the rental car we were going to drive from Avignon to Barcelona were gone.  Personal items including my grandmother’s mother-of-pearl rosary beads were GONE. I was most upset about the rosary beads because it was the only treasure I had that belonged to my beloved grandmother, irreplaceable. But, of course, we were very concerned about our travel vouchers. How were we going to get to Barcelona? Was I going to have to call Pedro in Barcelona to bail us out? How would we return to the States?

Shari has some college French, and I have high school French. Enough for us to limp along in Paris where English is universally used in tourist locations. In smaller towns, there are not as many people who speak or understand English. We went to the hotel concierge and told him of our dilemma.

“Ah, madame, je suis désolée,” he said, “Vous devez vous rendre à la police et faire un rapport.”  (So sorry. You must take yourself to the police to make a report.)

I wanted to say, Monsieur, it must have been an inside job – someone from your staff who had access to our room – but I didn’t have the words nor the inclination to argue with him because I wanted to get to the police as soon as I could.

A police report! Oh my, what would that look like? Visions of American TV shows about police departments, chaos, and disinterested officers taking down statements with a yawn if they didn’t include murder. How would I get across the urgency of our need to recover our paperwork quickly so we could continue our journey? We were expected in Barcelona in five days. Not a lot of time to hang around police stations and wait for someone to take notice. Besides it would all have to be done in French! Oooo-la-la.

Off we went to the address given for the Commissariat de Police. It appeared to be a storefront operation, not a big imposing building. We walked through the glass door, no security. A young man greeted us from behind a glass-topped desk and we did our best to explain to him why we were there. Two or three other uniformed men were in that front office.

“Eh bon, tellement désolé que vous ayez été volé” he calmly said. “Nous pouvons vous aider.” (Ah, good, sorry you were robbed. We can help you.) I felt this was not the first time he’d heard a story like ours.

He ushered us into a glass-enclosed office. He offered us seats in front of the desk. No one was in the office.

This is what we saw: a simple wood desk with nothing on it except a telephone; totally clean, no papers, no files, no pens, nothing; a padded desk chair behind the desk. We sat in two padded folding chairs. A couple of bookshelf units stood against one wall, only a few (I mean three or four) books or notebooks in each unit, the rest bare shelves; no computer, no printer, no file cabinets, no clutter. I began to look around.

I said to Shari, “Do you think this is a real police department? Are we on candid camera? Is this a spoof for foreigners? Where are the criminals waiting to be jailed? Where is the chaos of an active police station? It looks like a movie set before they holler ‘Roll ‘em’. It’s just too quiet to be real.”

Enter a young man in a uniform – central casting, tall, blond, and beautiful. He smiled and offered a handshake. In halting English he said, “I’m sorry your trip has been interrupted by this mistake.”

“Mistake?” I’m thinking.

“Ce n’est pas un mistake,” I said. “It was a robbery, and we lost all our papers for our trip. We are expected in Barcelona in five days and then we return to the U.S. in a week.”

“Oui, un vol, excusez-moi.” he continued calmly. (Yes, pardon me, a robbery.)

Our discussion went on with him speaking in French with an occasional errant English word and me speaking in English with an occasional fractured French word. Lots of gestures accompanied the conversation. Shari did her best to translate here and there. The policeman seemed to understand everything we told him but was not making any notes or looking for forms. He did ask to see our passports.

Finally, he said he would sign a police report, and we could take it to the rental car agency to get our car. He assured us that it would also be enough evidence to have airline tickets reissued. Not to worry. He was completely unruffled, and matter-of-fact. Wait! Wait! Where was the investigation? Where was the fingerprinting? Where was the drama? Drôle indeed. I wondered if this was some kind of setup, some kind of con to make tourists relax before they laid down a hammer and charged us oodles of dollars to get out of their country.

After all, the French have a universal reputation of being haughty, rude, and nasty to foreigners. That had not been my experience on my previous trip to France, but there is always a first time, and this time was serious. Could we count on their assistance?

A one-page printed report was issued within fifteen minutes. We left the police station, still shaking our heads at what we perceived as the unusual calm we encountered. We went directly to the rental car agency. I explained our situation and showed them the report, preparing for an onslaught of questions and requests for proof beyond the report. They asked to see our passports, then handed me the keys to the car. It took less than ten minutes.

It still felt surreal. To be in a foreign country, being robbed of all our paperwork and still being allowed to rent a car so simply. It takes more effort to rent a car in my hometown.  

Gleefully, we left with our car. It was a Ford KA, a subcompact city car. Too small to be called a KAR – like half of a VW bug. No backseat, it was barely big enough for Shari, me, and two suitcases. We zipped along the freeway and through small towns like a gnat on a summer breeze. It was great to park. We fit anywhere we wanted, almost like a motorcycle. Each time we returned to our parked KA, I was surprised to find it still there. It was so small I could imagine someone coming along and picking it up like a child’s toy.

We stayed another day in Avignon then left for a winding trip through Provence and Occitanie along the southeast coast. We visited the cathedral in Nimes. We stayed a night in a nearly deserted resort town on the Mediterranean, Palavas. It was past the tourist season, being mid September, and all the hotels were closed. One very nice hotelier offered us a room overnight without any services. We were the only ones there. We ate a simple meal in a small restaurant on a canal that led to the Gulf of Lion. Fishing boats were docked along the edge of the canal. We visited the castle in Carcassonne, learning its quaint legend, and stayed in Narbonne; got lost trying to find a public bathroom; looked for carousels in each little French village (they all seemed to have one); and, Shari got to eat at a Mickey D’s in France. We crossed the Spanish border without a border check, arriving in Barcelona safe and sound, welcomed by a round of warm Spanish hugs and kisses from our family. We left Spain on schedule with no issues over airline tickets, just a very small fee. All that is another story or two…

The Gift I Took for Granted

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Walking is prayer. Each day I try to walk for at least an hour and sometimes two hours. During that time I pray, meditate, listen to music or an audiobook. It is MY time to unload my stress, reload my gratitude, and fill my senses with God’s creations. I don’t use it to make plans for my day or my life. It is time for me to be present in each moment, not jump into the future or review the past.

Each walk starts with a prayer. I thank almighty God for giving me a healthy body and the ability to walk. I continue my thanks giving for all the blessings in my life, friends, family, and the beauty of the day. Once in a while one of the characters from a story I’m writing comes to take up space in my head as I amble along. I firmly let them know I’ll get back to them later after I get home but I try to remember what they tell me so I can write it down when I’m back at my desk.

I appreciate the gift of biped perambulating because five years ago I was couch-bound for over three months. I broke both of my ankles (one at a time prolonging recovery time – that’s another story about life lessons) and couldn’t do the simplest thing – walk. As a one-year-old, I learned, as most of us do, to move my body balancing from foot to foot, and took for granted that ability to move myself would always be with me. I was shocked when I couldn’t get up and walk. I used a scooter to get from place to place in the house, but I couldn’t WALK. I began noticing all the people who had walking limitations, using crutches, scooter, cane, staff, and walker. I developed great empathy for them. Until then I really didn’t notice them. I recognize now how hard it is to get oneself up, showered and dressed, and ready for the day when you cannot walk; what willpower it takes to get to the grocery store, to a job or do anything around the house.

I became very jealous of people who walked by or even worse jogged or ran by. Ken would take me for car rides to get me out of the house and I found rage bubble as I saw people walking. It struck me that unless I took myself in hand and made rehab my primary daily activity, I could possibly end up using a walker, cane or God forbid even a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Walking became an obsession.

I walked or jogged as a casual activity for decades never realizing what a gift it was. It was ho-hum, I guess I’ll go for a walk or go running at the track. I have strong legs and can walk miles without aches or pains. Not because of anything I’ve ever done, but because I am blessed with a sturdy body – hearty peasant stock.  I sometimes walked over seven miles around my town, to become familiar with neighborhoods. I hiked many trails around Tucson. Several times I hiked the nine-mile trail loop to the top of Wasson Peak in Saguaro National Park of the Tucson Mountains. I got winded by the 2,000-foot elevation change, but my legs never gave out. I’ve hiked various trails in the Catalina Mountains and the sandy trail at the bottom of Honey Bee Canyon.  I don’t know at what point my legs would get tired. I always feel I can do more, go farther. I haven’t explored my limits.

We built our house at the edge of Vistoso Golf Course so we would have open space behind us. The golf course owner went bankrupt and had to sell the property. Because of the town plan and zoning, it was hard to find a buyer for a defunct golf course. Without significant legal maneuvers, it couldn’t become housing. Finally, the Town of Oro Valley along with the Nature Conservancy group purchased the property as a Nature Preserve. Bonus! Not only would it remain open space but there would not be those annoying golf carts and maintenance vehicles roaming around our backyard.

The Preserve is 202 acres with 6.2 miles of concrete trails (former cart paths) and many more miles of dirt trails crisscrossing open spaces. If you stay on the concrete path it takes about two hours to walk the loop. The wonderful thing is you don’t have to stay on the path. You can walk across meadows and through tree-lined washes making your own track. Foot traffic through these open areas has created alternate routes over the past couple of years.

Ghost Saguaro

I am now so familiar with the Preserve that I’ve named each hill along the trail. For example, there is Castle Hill in the foothills of the Tortolita Mountains with a view of a castle-like rock formation. From this elevated part of the trail, you can see the Tucson Mountains to the west and the Catalina’s to the east.  Playground Hill passes the park in the CenterPoint neighborhood; Shady Wash Hill starts from a big shaded wash and climbs to a wide open field; Number Seven Hill where the seventh tee of the old golf course was and the marker remains. Meadow Hill climbs up to a big open meadow where I have seen coyotes romping through tall grass. There are among others, Ghost Saguaro Hill, and Petroglyph Hill. And on and on. I haven’t counted how many hills are on the trail, but I look forward to each one as I come to them on my rambles through the Preserve.    

I walk alone for at least an hour each day. My friend Roxanne walks with me for two hours on Saturday morning. I encounter many of the same people who live in the area and walk the trails daily as I do. We nod, smile, and say good morning, make short comments and observations on the day or the wildlife we see. There are couples, and dog walkers, but most are solitary as am I. A few ride bikes through the Preserve. I feel sorry for them because they whiz by all the beauty and natural wonders so quickly and miss observing the animals entirely. We dress in shorts or sweats depending on the season and t-shirts, and possibly a jacket in the winter, very casual since it is our neighborhood, home is nearby.

There is one group I come across almost every week. I call them the Imports. They are definitely not from the neighborhood. They wear backpacks and look like serious hikers. They have a leader who talks and points as they walk. I think they are part of an ecology group. They start in a close group, but I noticed, when I come across them later on the trail, that they become separated with stragglers sometimes fifty yards behind the leaders.

Wildlife is abundant. In other posts, I’ve listed all the animals that live in my neighborhood. Or rather I recognize that I live in their neighborhood. I’m grateful they haven’t gotten pissed off and left but instead stayed to share the area with us human invaders. Sometimes a deer or javelina will go by our backyard fence and look in at us sitting on the patio. It is as if they are taking a stroll through their environment, and we are the ones behind the bars of our fence like critters in a zoo. Although they are wild things they do not threaten or challenge us. I’ve had coyotes trot alongside me as I walk. They get within about twenty feet and match my pace. They are wary and keep an eye on my movements. I get no sense of threat from them. 

Bobcats don’t come as close when I’m walking but they have slept on our front patio, even on the chaise in our backyard.  Once while holding our two-year-old grandson’s hand I walked to the end of our cul de sac and nearly stumbled over a sleeping bobcat who blended so well with the vegetation that I didn’t see him until he stood up, stretched, and moved away into the wash. A bobcat slept unnoticed in our neighbor’s backyard wooden play structure and only left when the kids in the pool made a big racket and woke him. I know enough to keep a good distance from wild things especially if they have their babies with them. They can be dangerous if they feel threat.

Mostly I see a plethora of bird beings, in all varieties.  Bunnies and lizards/geckos of all shapes and sizes zip here and there in the underbrush or across the trails. Summertime means many of the animals retreat to the mountains and our valley is left with those that don’t travel. When cooler weather begins, the animals show up just as human snowbirds do. But honestly, the animals are more welcome because they don’t clog the streets and byways or crowd the restaurants and library. They add variety to my daily walks. They listen to my prayers.

Monsoons

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Late Summer 2024. This is the best time of all in the desert when luxurious rain drenches the parched earth. Rivers and washes flow. The hills and mountainsides turn dark green. In summer most places in the U.S. dry out, the earth turns yellow and brown. But Tucson blooms. The delicate trumpet flowers of Texas Rangers flaunt various shades from the soft lavender of a morning sunrise to deep purple vibrations of a shiny eggplant. Succulent plants flower, pink, orange, red, and white.

Texas Rangers

This is the time I love the most. I have never understood why people head for the north country during summer in the desert. It is absolutely the most glorious time. The desert comes alive. Yes, it is hot, very hot. People don’t stay outside in 103 degree heat just as they don’t stay outside in 15 degree cold. Our hottest month is June and it tapers off through September. Only 50 or 60 out of 365 days are unbearably hot. Those are mercifully interspersed with cooler days of monsoon or mini-soons. We have become soft and civilized. Natives of this land lived and survived outside for generations. We leave an air-conditioned home, get in an air-conditioned car and go to the air-conditioned place of choice. Unbearable days are spent in air-conditioned homes, stores, restaurants, and offices. Movie theaters are kept at icy temperatures requiring a sweater as you watch your favorite stars act up on the screen.

I walk in our nature preserve almost every day, rain or shine, hot or cold. In summer, I set off early before the sun takes full command of the sky. I pause in shady places to examine the trees, meadow, and flowers around me. I come home drenched in sweat but so happy to witness the changes in the desert. In winter, I leave later in the morning and eschew all the shadows to take full advantage of the warm sunshine.

Most humans are comfortable with temps in the 60s. Anything below 80 degrees makes me shiver and requires long underwear. It is not because I have adapted to Southern Arizona. I’ve always been this way. I froze in Seattle for forty years, with temps rarely above the 60s. I’ve come to my comfort zone in Tucson.

Mama Quail with her brood

Bunnies become fat and sassy. Therefore, the coyotes have wonderful feasts and fill out their bellies as well. Plump quail parents shepherd their tiny eggs-on-legs babies across the path. Snakes are out warming their cold blood along paths and walkways. Best to avoid them although most are harmless. We do have the occasional rattler. Happy lizards and geckos of many types skitter through the brush. I stop to take photos of any cooperative critter. Javelina are most amenable to pose for me, so I have scores of javelina family photos.

Funny Bunny posing
Javelina Family

Ooooo – clouds have gathered, thunder booms, the branches of our big mesquite are bowing in the wind outside my window, and fat drops of rain splatter the walkway. The temperature fell from 101 to 78 in 30 minutes and humidity went up from 14% to 51%. I’ll go now to enjoy the show.

Cactus Flowers
Rattle Snake sunning on path
Horny Toad

The Encounter

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Recently I was on my way into one of the mega hospitals in Tucson to visit a sick friend. At the entrance are two sets of sliding glass doors. I was entering the outside set and could see a woman holding an infant carrier coming out through the inside set of doors. I readied my smile and words of congratulations on her little treasure. As she came closer the words died in my mouth and my smile faded when I looked into her face. It was a mask of infinite sorrow. I’m sure she didn’t even see me through the tears that threatened to overflow onto her cheeks. I glanced into the infant carrier and saw only a wadded pink blanket. My mind began clicking away at the incongruity of the baby carrier and the sad face when I saw the sign inside the lobby. This hospital is a Safe Haven newborn drop-off site. A place where an infant less than 30 days old can be left, anonymously, no questions asked. The baby is cared for, then placed into the arms of a loving family who wants it.  Arizona passed the law in 2001 authorizing such safe places to avoid unwanted infants being abandoned to die.

This was a hard post to write. Understanding the difficult reality for other people takes me out of my secure, happy existence and makes me once again realize how very fortunate I am. That encounter lasted less than 30 seconds and a dark blue cloud hung over me the rest of the day and, in fact, I still feel it when the memory passes my mind. I harbor a deep sadness for the infant who was put in a Safe Baby box, instinctively aware that the mother she had been a part of for at least nine months was no longer with her. I felt empathy for the woman who made the heartbreaking decision only she could know and understand that she had to give up the child she carried inside, under her heart for nine months. I am grateful for compassionate lawmakers who sanctioned these safe places to save innocent infants, giving them an opportunity to thrive in families that want to raise a child. A mixed blessing.

Taking Time for Gratitude

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When I wake each day, I spend a few moments thanking God for another day and counting my blessings. Well, not every day. There are those days when I sling shot into the morning with six things to do before breakfast. But then I try to slow down, take a breath, and remember to be thankful. Thankful that I have six things to do and can do them. Also, I’m thankful that as a retiree I have the luxury of slower mornings.

On Saturday I walk five to seven miles on the trails through Vistoso Nature Preserve, a two-hundred-acre open space that borders our backyard. In every direction, I see the glorious mountain ranges that surround us. Their solid majesty guardian of our valley. I’m grateful for the beautiful Preserve where wildlife is abundant and free to roam. I am grateful they share their space with us, invaders in their world. Today a young coyote crossed the trail about twenty feet in front of me. She stopped on the other side, paused to look at me, and then ambled into the underbrush and trees. Within seconds she disappeared, as animals do, melding into her environment. A couple of miles later, two cavorting coyotes came to the edge of the trail from an open area, noted my presence, then played on chasing each other, leaping and disappearing into the tall grass. They looked like a couple of dolphins breaching from beneath the sea.

Bird song accompanied my walk. I felt I was being passed along from song to song, bird by bird. I’m not a birder so I couldn’t identify the avian varieties, but their songs were a lovely accompaniment to the walk. Rabbits, large and small, scampered alongside trails busy in their bunny ways. They would halt to give me a look, then go about their business.

I am grateful to be able to walk. A few years ago, I broke my ankle and had to have the shattered bones screwed and plated back together. I spent weeks on the sofa unable to take even a single step on my own. Thank God for Dr. Ty who did a wonderful job of putting Humpty Dumpty back together. I so looked forward to walking across the family room into the kitchen. But… Immediately upon healing, I broke the other ankle. Don’t ask. It’s a dumb story and one for another day. I believe God saw I had not learned the lesson He intended and decided I needed more time immobilized. So again, I had to have surgery and spend more time on the sofa unable to walk.

During that long recovery period, Ken would pack me into the car for little excursions to get me out of the house and lift my spirits. What it mostly did was make me jealous of people I saw walking. Such a simple thing. We learn as babies to stand on two legs and claim our freedom to get from one place to another on our own. I did not appreciate that freedom until suddenly I was anchored down for three months. I swore that once mobile I would walk every day and appreciate each step. I have and I do. My daily walks are one to four miles and each step is blessed.

Ken still accompanies me on daily walks for up to a mile. He cannot walk further right now but hopes to increase his mobility in the near future. I’m cheering him on as he works to improve. I’m grateful that he is making every effort.

Most Saturdays I walk with my friend Roxanne, but she has been away visiting her son in Oregon, so I go alone. When we walk together, we talk, talk, talk for two hours. We solve the problems of the world and a few of our own. When I walk alone, of course, I’m really not alone with all the critters in the Preserve or friends from the neighborhood I meet along the way. My time walking alone during the week is for quiet contemplation, writing poems in my head, thinking about situations a character in one of my stories faces, or sometimes listening to music or a book on my phone. I am grateful for all those opportunities – alone or with friends.

Haiku from today

Silly woodpecker
Rapping on the metal pipe
What is he thinking?

At the Diner

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We had lunch at a local diner, one sunny February afternoon. We frequent that diner because it is nearby, has very friendly staff, homestyle cooking, generous portions, and reasonable prices.  The diner is open daily for breakfast and lunch. The décor is Midwest farm kitchen. There are pictures and photographs throughout of farm life, fields, and animals. There is a plethora of chicken and rooster statuettes everywhere. The main room has two dozen tables and a lunch counter with another dozen stools. There are two extra rooms for overflow, used mostly on Sunday mornings or when clubs have meetings. We are so grateful that the diner was able to stay open for the two years of the covid panic. So many mom-and-pop businesses had to close.

Just after we were seated at a table by the window, I observed a woman, 60ish, cross the parking lot and come into the diner alone. She was short, pear shaped and wore a dress with a leafy green on green print and brown “sensible” shoes. She carried a pink purse, a blue hardbound book, and a plastic grocery bag that looked packed with something. It could have been clothes or trash, I don’t know, but it was tied up. She placed her book and purse on the counter and went to the bathroom with the grocery bag. I assumed by her casual leaving of her belongings that she was a regular. I often see solo diners eat at the counter, but I’ve never seen a lone woman there. She returned without the plastic bag and assumed her tall chair, ordered iced tea and lunch, and opened her book. I saw from my table across the room that it was a Patricia Cornwell mystery – big letters on the cover.

My husband and I talked about our niece who was visiting from Montana as we waited for our food.

A tall man, over six feet, also in his 60s, possibly 70 entered the diner. He had on a blue plaid wool long-sleeve work shirt, blue jeans, boots and wore a camo ballcap that he didn’t remove. Lanky would adequately describe him, loose limbed and thin.  He passed by the woman. Neither acknowledged the other. He threw his leg over a counter chair, two seats away from the woman. He looked very much at home at the counter. The waitress took his drink and lunch order. Both the man and woman faced straight ahead. The woman reading her book. It looked like she had just started it – only a few pages in. When their waitress brought their lunches, they began to eat, still not looking at one another.

I glanced over to them as I ate my lunch. After a couple of bites of sandwich, the man looked at the woman and made a comment. Since I was across the room, I have no idea what was said. The woman acknowledged his question or comment and continued eating her sandwich and reading her book without turning to look at him. Again, he said something and again she answered without looking his way. He continued to eat and talk looking in her direction. After about five minutes she looked up and smiled at him. She said something in return. Encouraged, he turned his swivel chair so he directly faced the woman. His talking became more animated. He used his hands, then his arms with broad gestures, to illustrate what he said. She looked up at him more often and the conversation became mutual – a back and forth dialogue. Finally, she closed her book and gave her full attention to the man.

I watched this human interchange from across the room as it slowly unwound. It was enjoyable to see the two people, who I assumed were strangers, find something in common to talk about as they ate their lunches.

“What’s going on?” my husband queried when he saw me chuckling quietly while I watched the couple at the counter.
“I am watching two people getting acquainted.”

He looked up for a moment then, uninterested, returned to his sandwich.

The waitress gave each of them their bill as they finished their meals. They continued to talk for a minute or two then the man got up, paid, and left the restaurant. The woman followed a few minutes later after buying a sweet from the pastry display cabinet to take with her. My husband and I left also.

I felt I had watched an entertaining play unfold before me during lunch. I suppose I could make up the dialogue but the scene, even without words, was enough. It was like watching a silent movie.

That’s what writers do. We observe. Stories, scenes, and characters come from everyday incidents. Imagination fills in the blanks, the dialogue, the prologue and the epilogue. I’m sure the two people I saw that day will join the many other characters who live in my mind’s village and have a story of their own one day. What was in that plastic bag?? Could their story be a mystery? a little romance? a fantasy? a political thriller?

What have you observed either at a restaurant, in line at a grocery store, or walking in the park? Stories are born from these scenes. You don’t have to know the dialogue, that’s what your fertile imagination will create.

Our Town

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On November 5th we hosted a pot-luck Texas Hold ‘Em poker party for a group of long-time friends. We ate outside on the back patio then went in for the card game. Our poker parties go back many many years. As couples, we used to meet regularly. When covid hit the parties became sporadic but we still met on occasion. In total, there are seventeen of us. Not everyone makes every party, but we try. The ladies of the group also gather monthly for dinner at a restaurant to celebrate a birthday. When there is no birthday that month we meet anyway to celebrate friendship. In October there was a garden party hosted by a couple who built a greenhouse during the pandemic. The incentive for that gathering was to show all the beautiful plants and vegetables they propagated during the last two years. Everyone left with a small basket of fresh veggies to make soup at home.

Ken and I owned a real estate company and, in 2002, hired our first agent. During the next couple of years, we added more agents. We met their spouses and became friends. We added some of our clients to the group and, over twenty-plus years, an enduring bond of friendship and support was created. That friendship continued even after we retired. We all managed through covid, vaxed or unvaxed. Two couples moved away for several years, one to California and the other to Minnesota, but returned and were immediately brought back into the fold. In 2021 one of our friends died but he is still very much in our thoughts and part of our conversations.

Potluck is our preferred kind of party, even if it doesn’t include poker. Everyone brings a favored dish to share. Just as potluck is a combination of foods, our group is a combination of individual talents. Each person contributes to the whole with their uniqueness. All are blessed with the knack of friendship – they listen, they make others feel comfortable. We poke fun at one another in gentle ways and in memory of all the good times together.  Laughter is a big part of every gathering.

The day after our party the 1940 film, Our Town was shown on TCM. I remember reading Thornton Wilder’s play in our 11th-grade English class taught by Mrs. Lupton. The play was performed by our high school drama club. Then again years later, Ken and I saw it performed by the Seattle Repertory Theater. Even though I am an oldy film buff, I had never seen the movie. The play takes place in the early 1900s and its human themes resonate today. I reflected on our party. As friends, we have known each other, not since childhood, but through years that included births (of grandchildren), love, divorce, marriage, illness, and death. We attended baby showers and followed the milestones of each grandchild. Now one of those grandsons is in basic training for the Air Force and there are still toddlers in the group. Life moves at a breathtaking pace. I am ever grateful for their continued friendship as we compare old veiny hands and the inconveniences of aging. We discuss travel plans, artistic endeavors, beloved pets, children’s achievements, the highlights of grandchildren, and celebrate each accomplishment. Poker is fun too and we all (yes, even Larry) cheer the winner.

Our Town was knocking on my consciousness. This post began life as an entry in my journal several weeks ago. Within days of my journal entry, I started and finished reading the novel Tom Lake by Ann Patchett in which a “character” in the story is the play Our Town. Hmmm, a coincidence? My journal is much longer and more detailed, but I decided to pare it down and post it since the play seems to be all around me from a movie to a novel and the sense of my own community around me. Funny how that happens – recurring themes. The life of a writer.

Five Easy Pieces

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In 1970 when the movie Five Easy Pieces was released, I was a grownup suburban matron with three children. Such was my disguise, cloaking the heart of a rebel. Jack Nicolson embodied that rebel spirit and I adored him. That movie was one of my favorites at the time although now I don’t remember the plot or much about the movie. I do remember the scene at a restaurant when he orders a side of toast with his omelet and the waitress says they don’t have side orders. So he orders a chicken sandwich on whole wheat toast, hold the mayo, hold the lettuce, and hold the chicken. That reaction to nonsensical rules comes back to me often.

We recently went to a restaurant and our grandson ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. “What kind of cheese?” asked the waitress.”American,” he responded. I was surprised because he has a fairly sophisticated pallet for cheese and I don’t think of American as a favorite. The order took longer than expected (no doubt, the exotic cheese choice) and forty minutes later everyone had their meal except our grandson. How hard is a cheese sandwich? He finally received his order. It was a simple sandwich with a thin layer of cheese painted between two slices of toast.

When we received the bill, we were charged for the sandwich plus 50 cents for the cheese. I laughed. Pay extra for cheese in a cheese sandwich? What next? Extra for ice in iced tea or cheese in a cheeseburger? The server’s response was equally nonsensical. She said the management was terrible and they were understaffed. What has that to do with a separate charge for cheese.? I’m very sorry for the overworked, unappreciated staff but…
Fifty cents is not the issue. It’s blindly following some rule that says if cheese is ordered it’s extra.

I fear the sheep in our society are multiplying rapidly. Compliant, unquestioning followers – not leaders who look above the fray, see daylight, and search for reason. No offense intended to sheep.

That’s my observation for today.

The Wall

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I have a tiny piece of it – The Wall. The wall whose demolition I thought signaled hope and the end of division. The wall that came down in Berlin on November 9, 1989. Unlike other days that are seared into memory with feelings of foreboding, like J.F. Kennedy’s assassination, Elvis’ death, M.L. King’s assassination, Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, 9-11, this was a day of global celebration. I very clearly remember where I was the day when hundreds of people smashed that wall to pieces. I watched the event on TV in a hotel while at a business conference with my husband, feeling a sense of gratitude and relief that the symbol of oppression was destroyed. A friend was in Berlin when it came down and brought a piece of it to me. I can’t recall who he was. His face and name are lost in the labyrinths of my mind. But I still have that remnant of the wall in a small, bejeweled keepsake box in the top drawer of my dresser. It used to sit in a tray on top of the dresser where I could see it every day, but my cats taught me that anything visible could easily become invisible if they decided to swipe it; especially a small thing even if it represents a much bigger thing.

The Berlin Wall separated families physically by only a few feet but by deep canyons of ideology. We are still in that place. Walls are taken down only to have other walls built. Walls have been built forever – to keep people in as the Berlin wall, and to keep people out as the wall being built on our southern border, and the Great Wall of China that was designed in the 7th century BCE to keep out the invading Mongol hordes. People crash through walls at their own peril when what is on the other side is perceived to be more enticing than what is on their side. The world has been crashing our borders to get into a country that is labeled by some as racist, homophobic, oppressive, and discriminatory. The rapidly eroding American Dream. It is a country many still believe is better than what they left. Some European countries are attacked with the same fervor.

Humans build walls. That’s what we do. It is a conundrum. We build walls but we don’t like walls, so we tear them down. We surround our property, farms, ranches, and suburban plots with walls or fences. Office spaces are defined by boundaries. Even the homeless mark out their plots to squat. What is that all about?

I am not naïve as I once was, believing we could all live together in peace and harmony if we would only try. Seventy-odd years of life swept that dream away. Sorry Martin Luther King. In the timeless myth of King Arthur, the king explained that when Merlin, the wizard, turned him into a bird, he flew high above the land and could not see where one county ended and another began because the earth doesn’t designate boundaries, only people do. John Lennon wrote about a world without boundaries in the song Imagine. “Imagine no countries, it isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for and no religion too.” A world to wish for but, despite our rhetoric, that is not what human beings do. It’s sad but it is human nature. In the words of another King, Rodney, who in 1992 survived a brutal police beating and subsequent riots in his name, “Can’t we all just get along?”

I can only do what I can do to make others feel welcome and accepted provided they do not threaten me with harm. Their religion, nationality, sexual proclivities, or political beliefs are of no interest to me if they are friendly and interesting to talk with. I confess I have a wall around my backyard too. It keeps out the deer, javelina, and coyotes who have not yet figured out how to open the gate. The bobcats and quail, however, jump the wall and the bunnies squeeze through the weepholes. I’m okay with that. We live in harmony.

Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets

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Our writers’ group published a book a year ago, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, about the fun and challenges of being a writers’ group. It is a collaborative memoir that spans two-plus decades of friendship and writing. Besides being a memoir, our book includes prompt ideas, tips to keep a group together, stories, poems, and essays by the three of us. This coming Saturday, November 25, Sally and I will be at the Society of Southwest Authors Book Fair to meet and greet, sell, and autograph books. Previously we were invited to participate in the Tucson Festival of Books last March 2023. It was fun talking with folks who read our book, learning how they used our tips with their groups. We get a big kick out of sharing our story and encouraging other writers to start support groups like ours that will further their writing goals. The third member of our writing trio lives in Colorado and is not able to be with us this time. If you are in the Tucson vicinity, please come join us at Desert Hills Lutheran Church in Green Valley between 9 am and noon. There will be other local writers with a variety of books to sell. Below is a link to our book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It can be purchased digitally or in paperback.

Book: Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets – Amazon

Book: Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets – Barnes and Noble